


Devotion

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Autistic Sherlock, Children, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Neighbours AU, Obsession, Riding, Romance, Single Parent AU, frequent exchanges of food and baked goods, marcus bell is a fucking gift to humanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8740807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: How to fall in love with your neighbour...





	1. Chapter 1

Marcus Bell woke up at five o’clock every morning.

Sherlock watched him through the window, across the courtyard of the apartment complex. No matter what state Sherlock was in, no matter how deeply he’d immersed himself into a case, Marcus was a constant and unchanging presence. He was a warm, glowing rectangle of light, a window into a regimented, stable life. He moved around his kitchen slowly, methodically, his young baby daughter on his hip. Sherlock was mesmerised by the patience with which he treated his child, spellbound by his muscular arms and the way his face softened when he laughed.

Sherlock had deduced a number of things about Marcus Bell, but he couldn’t quite figure out who the mother of his child was. Or why that woman had no role to play in her daughter’s life.

Sherlock would wander around his apartment in various states of lethargy, obsessiveness, and near-insomniac exhaustion. He would be half-dressed, or wrapped in a sheet, or in outfits that he’d been wearing for three days. But Marcus always wore freshly-washed clothes, tight t-shirts, and fitted sweatpants.

Except when he didn’t. Except for when he woke up at five o’clock and wandered out into his kitchen, wearing nothing but tight, black shorts. Leaving very little to the imagination, even through a window that was relatively far away.

Sherlock thought about him too often for it to be a passing fascination.

He would wake up earlier just to see him through the window– he would stay up all night just so he would be able to watch the light in the adjacent apartment being switched on, just so he would be able to see Marcus wander into view, dazed and sleepy, just so he could watch Marcus carry his baby out into the kitchen, feed her and give her milk.

He wanted to talk to this man. Wanted to befriend him, wanted to kiss him, wanted to touch his smooth skin. Which was as foreign as it was exciting; he didn’t lust after people, he didn’t need relationships _,_ he didn’t _want_ people in his life.

 But he wanted Marcus Bell.

 

***

 

Sherlock heard a knock on his door.

He looked up dryly. Joan Watson, his dearest friend, back to annoy him again. He loved her visits as much as he was irritated by them. She had an unapologetic sense of determination. And he, much to her distress, was so buried in investigations right now that he wasn’t eating anything further than scraps he could find in the apartment. Likely, she was back to force some food onto him and make him eat.

He ambled up out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans, not bothering to do up his fly. Meeting with Watson required only the most basic etiquette. They were too close for a lack of propriety to matter. And, no matter how much she annoyed him on his bad days, he would always let her in, and he would always listen to her. Because he respected her, and she was his friend.

He opened the door. And froze.

To his utter astonishment, Watson was not standing on his doorstep. Instead, Marcus Bell, in all his athletic glory, stood before him, wearing a tightly fitted grey t-shirt. In his hands, he held a bowl of salad.

“Good mornin’,” Marcus said. He was smirking, his eyes soft with some kind of unexpected affection. Or amusement. Sherlock couldn’t quite tell. Then, his gaze moved down Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock remembered his fly.

“…Hello.” Sherlock replied slowly. He did up his fly, embarrassment heating his cheeks. How inconvenient that, today of all days, his most basic skills in deduction should fail him. He was clearly distracted by the current case he was working on, or he’d have realised there had been a lack of high heels clacking against the pavement before the knock on his door.

“I’m Marcus Bell. Your neighbour.”

“I know who you are.”

“Brought you this.” Marcus held forward the salad.

Sherlock considered the food with narrowed eyes, suspicious. “…Why?”

Marcus shrugged. “I see you through the window sometimes. And I hardly ever see you cook, ‘specially lately. So, thought you might appreciate some real food.”

“…Surely you have more important things to be worrying about.”

Marcus smiled. “My daughter’s asleep. So nah, I don’t right now.”

Sherlock hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly, taking the bowl in both his hands. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and smiled tightly.

“I know you ain’t the sociable type, don’t feel obligated to invite me inside. I’ll see you around sometime?” Marcus stepped back from the doorway, sliding his hands into his jean pockets. Sherlock couldn’t resist watching the way his biceps curled with the movement.

“…Sure.”

Marcus nodded, and started to walk away.

“My name is,” Sherlock continued, voice faltering, “My name is, uh. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

Marcus paused, looking back over his shoulder. He smiled, and nodded thoughtfully.

“G’night then, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock closed the door after him, and stood for a while in silence, utterly stunned by what had just happened. It had never before occurred to him that Marcus Bell had noticed him, let alone that he would feel the need or desire to make conversation or initiate any kind of friendship or relationship.

He looked down at the salad. It seemed to include a great deal of avocado. He took the lid off, inhaled the smell of fresh vegetables.

He realised he was very, very hungry.

 

***

 

Marcus walked back to his apartment with a smile on his face and cheeks hot with a blush that, thankfully, didn’t show. _Fuck,_ he had not expected to feel so impressed. Those tattoos, that body… the guy looked even more attractive up close. And Marcus was so _into_ him. A single dad with a life that revolved around his kid? He didn’t get out much, and goddamn if he couldn’t help but notice the free show he was blessed with through his kitchen window every day.

Granted, the guy seemed odd. But, hell… Marcus had put up with much weirder people for a lot less.

He closed the apartment door behind him and, as had become his fundamental instinct, went immediately to his daughter’s room to check on her. Little Tessa was fast asleep in her crib, tiny fists limply curled on her sky blue blanket. He smiled down at her lovingly, pausing for a moment just to listen to her breathing and make sure she was alright. He then left before he could wake her.

He fixed himself a rum and coke in the kitchen, thinking about his neighbour. About his body. About his tentative smile, his strangely sexy accent, and the endearing shyness with which he’d introduced himself.

“Sherlock,” Marcus murmured quietly in the silence of his apartment.

He poured a shot of rum, then added ice cubes, then poured diet coke into the glass. His friends always mocked him for using diet coke, when he was drinking alcohol anyway. Or, they used to. His friends had stopped coming around once he’d gotten a daughter. They always seemed to get busy, always seemed to have something else to do. And he could never find a goddamn babysitter.

But it was worth it. Because she was his world.

He looked up, and saw Sherlock through the window, practically shovelling salad into his mouth.

Marcus grinned widely.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

For a week after that, Marcus didn’t see Sherlock again.

The light in Sherlock’s apartment remained off, and Marcus began to get an unpleasant, unprecedented sinking feeling. He’d been an idiot, thinking a complete stranger who hardly ever went outside would give a shit about some salad. Why had he gone over there at all?

He resigned himself to taking care of Tessa, and working harder than usual, taking more shifts at the daycare. It was a far cry from the detective work he’d only recently been accustomed to, but at least this way Tessa got to go to daycare and ‘socialise’ with other babies– at a discounted price, no less, because her dad was employed there.

And he could watch her. Keep an eye on his baby girl. He was determined that his daughter would grow up with other kids, and not have to be stuck in the apartment while he earned paychecks.

It was an ideal situation.

But still, it was goddamn tiring. Looking after young children was no easy feat– one baby alone was an intense experience, let alone classes of thirty kids below six years old. He was surrounded by children, all the time, every day, and while he loved Tessa with all his heart, he found himself thinking about Sherlock Holmes and wishing that he could at least have a conversation with the guy. An actual verbal interaction with another adult.

Marcus Bell was starting to have a gargantuan amount of respect for all the young, single mothers he’d known through his life. He felt like most men didn’t really appreciate what it felt like to be the sole caregiver to a child. He couldn’t even imagine how he’d have managed if he had to go to college while raising a little girl– and he knew plenty of women who’d managed it.

 

***

 

Marcus drove Tessa back from daycare, feeling like his eyes were going to fall closed at any moment. He parked the car by the side of the road for a moment, slapped himself on the cheek, had a pull of coffee, and shook his head violently.

“Come on, Bell, suck it up.”

In the backseat, Tessa regarded him curiously. He smiled sweetly at her, and she smiled back.

He pulled off the curb, and very deliberately followed the speed limit as he went home, despite how much he wanted to get back to his bed. He realised he had milk for Tessa but no dinner for himself. He groaned loudly, but had to admit it was the lesser of two evils. He’d much rather eat late than let Tessa eat late.

By the time he pulled into the apartment complex’s parking lot, he was exhausted. He got out of the car, unclipped Tessa, and took her up to the apartment. She gave a small whine of complaint, small fists hitting softly against the side of his face.

“Nearly home, baby, nearly home,” he sighed, “just hold on a second.”

He trudged up the stairs, slowly and tiredly. He looked up, and stopped in his tracks when he saw there was someone standing in front of his door. Then, the man turned towards him, and Marcus smiled.

It was Sherlock Holmes himself. Dressed in jeans and a burgundy t-shirt, holding a bowl of baked pasta in his hands.

“Hello, Mr Bell,” Sherlock held up the bowl, looking shy and uncomfortable, “I’m here to return the favour.”

Marcus felt weak. “Are you tellin’ me that you got me dinner?”

“…Yes.”

“I could fuckin’ kiss you.” Marcus didn’t usually curse around Tessa, but this was an extreme situation that called for extreme measures. He dug around in his pocket for his keys. “Thank you so much, man, seriously. This is Tessa, by the way.”

Sherlock nodded in Tessa’s direction, looking so awkward that it was genuinely hilarious.

“You ain’t around kids much, are you?” Marcus chuckled.

“No.” Sherlock admitted with a distasteful expression on his face. “I don’t have anything against them, however,” he added, “it’s simply lack of exposure.”

“You’ve brought me dinner, as far as I’m concerned, you’re the goddamn messiah.” Marcus started to unlock the door, then paused. “You ain’t religious, are you?”

Sherlock’s expression was dryly amused. “The tone of voice with which you ask that question suggests you already know the answer.”

Marcus grinned. “Good to know my detective skills haven’t completely disappeared.”

“You were a detective?”

“Yeah,” Marcus opened the door, “You wanna come on in?”

Sherlock nodded, and followed him inside.

 

They ate the pasta together, and it was awkward, new, and nice in a way that things hadn’t been for a while. Marcus learned more about this stranger, and with everything that he learned, he was certain at least some of these obscene stories had to be lies.

“…And it was the _real_ Stanley Cup?” He asked incredulously, “I don’t believe it.”

“It was. I tested it in a number of different ways.”

“Jesus,” Marcus sat back in his chair and laughed, feeling bloated with the amount of food he’d just eaten, “you have an awesome life.”

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. Marcus got up, and went to the fridge.

“You want a beer?” he asked.

“I don’t drink.”

Marcus paused. “You mind if I drink?”

“No. As long as you don’t take your alcohol intravenously, I’ll be fine.”

Marcus frowned, as he pulled the cap off the bottle and sat back down. “What does that mean?”

Sherlock looked down at his bowl, and fidgeted, tapping on the porcelain uncomfortably. “Nothing.”

Marcus watched him for a moment, and nodded to himself. They were silent for a while, and Sherlock shifted in his seat. Marcus looked him up and down, cataloguing what he saw, assessing him just like he’d once assessed suspects and criminals.

“You a recovered addict?”

Sherlock looked up, his eyes clear and unreadable. He nodded slowly. Marcus met his stare, and thought of Tessa in the other room.

“I’ve met a lot of junkies in my time, even before I became a cop. And I know the bad ones when I see them. If you think knowing you’re a recovered addict makes me nervous, you ain’t gotta worry. I judge people on their merits.” Marcus grinned at him. “And I ain’t afraid of you.”

Sherlock frowned, the carefully arranged blankness of his stare giving way to a flash of genuine confusion. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet. But I wanna get to know you. That cool?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again, lost for words– as if he’d expected Marcus to throw him out, not even give him a chance.

“…Yes,” He replied, eventually, smiling, “I’d like that.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

They talked.

It was strange and different and awkward, until it wasn’t; until they were comfortable with each other, until they became friends, and it wasn’t uncommon for Marcus to come home and find Sherlock standing outside his door, or vice versa. Once, Marcus returned from a trip to the store, and his door was unlocked. He rushed in, terrified for his daughter, and found Sherlock sitting by her cot, cradling her in his arms.

“Sorry,” Sherlock had said, blushing deeply, “I realise it’s awfully rude of me to have broken into your home, but Tessa was crying, and she sounded so distressed that I…”

Marcus was taken aback, but there was nothing but honesty in Sherlock’s expression, and none of his valuables seemed to be missing; besides, Sherlock’s societal ineptitude was becoming more and more apparent by the day. This did seem like the kind of thing he would do without considering how it may look.

Somewhere deep inside him, Marcus felt a warm swell of affection, seeing Sherlock’s large hands curled protectively around Tessa’s tiny head. He had a sudden vision of Sherlock standing in his kitchen, making breakfast, Tessa held at his hip. It was such an unexpectedly domestic scene that Marcus blushed, chuckled awkwardly as he scratched at his neck.

“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it. Just don’t do it again, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, his expression earnest. “Yes, of course. I apologise.”

“Nah, it’s good.” Marcus held out his hands. “Give her to me.”

Sherlock handed her forward, and Marcus took her in his arms. He slowly lowered her into her cot, and Sherlock watched him from where he was still kneeling. Marcus, after putting Tessa to bed and tucking her in, straightened and looked down at him; he only realised his mistake when their eyes met, and Sherlock was kneeling in front of him.

Marcus froze.

Sherlock stared up at him, as if making a decision. Then, slowly, he stood. Marcus swallowed, clenching his fists.

“I’ll,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “head back to my apartment.”

“You didn’t…. come here for a particular reason?”

“Just to,” Sherlock nodded, fidgeting, “Just to see you.”

Marcus nodded. “Alright. Okay. See you later?”

“Of course.”

 

After Sherlock left, Marcus pulled down the blinds, locked the door, and immediately went to his bedroom. He pulled off his clothes with frenzied haste, lay down, and thought back to the moment Sherlock had looked up at him, his face clear and full of understanding. He’d made a decision, in that moment. A decision to leave, a decision to maintain the boundaries of a friendship as opposed to a relationship.

He’d decided not to do what Marcus had wanted him to.

Alone in his bedroom, Marcus undid the button on his jeans, breathed in. His eyes were closed, and his tongue slowly wet his bottom lip. He took himself in hand, imagined Sherlock’s lips, imagined Sherlock’s body. Those tattoos, those strong hands, that accent…

“Fuck,” Marcus whispered.

He arched off the bed, ran a hand up his stomach, just to feel skin against skin. He imagined stroking a hand down Sherlock’s face, gripping Sherlock’s hair. He wondered whether Sherlock would be gentle. Whether he would be rough. He wanted to know what would break through Sherlock’s intelligent emotional façade, what would make him whimper and moan and shake.

“Shit,” he breathed, “Shit, goddamn,”

It didn’t take him long to come after that.

When he was done, he panted, gazing unseeingly at the ceiling. He pressed a hand to his face, sighed loudly as the thrill of his orgasm faded, and he remembered that his daughter was in the other room.

It’d been a long time. A fucking long time.

He should’ve been more distressed to know that a man he’d only just met had broken into his home and picked up his child, no matter what his instincts told him. He should’ve been logical. Rational. Reasonable. He knew this obsession was probably due to the fact that his last relationship had left him with a child to raise all by himself; he knew that this was likely just him needing something that was his own, needing a relationship that wasn’t defined by his child or what her mother had done.

He groaned, rubbed his eyes. He felt exhausted. Annoyed.

And, most of all, desperate.

 

***

 

He had planned to talk to Sherlock about how breaking into someone’s home was extremely rude, and a really shit way of expressing concern– but he didn’t get a chance. Because Sherlock appeared on his doorstep one morning, holding a tray of cookies.

“I brought these to apologise.”

Marcus blinked. “Huh?”

“I am not…” Sherlock fidgeted, looking to the side, his jaw set, “I am not very adept at conversing with people, or operating within the strictures of ordinary manners. I have been known to push away friends unintentionally by crossing boundaries. While the loss of friendship, in the past, has been something of a relief, I… I don’t want to push you away. I quite like you, in fact, so,” Sherlock held out the cookies, his face hopeful, “here is my apology.”

Marcus looked down at the cookies.

“And I want to promise you,” Sherlock continued hastily, when Marcus didn’t reply, “that I would never, _ever_ , hurt your daughter. I understand the situation you were presented with yesterday must have seemed distressing to you, and you have every right to be angry with me, but I simply wanted to ensure she was alright after hearing her crying-”

“Okay.” Marcus said.

Sherlock’s frowned. “…‘Okay’?”

Marcus nodded, and took the cookies. “You wanna come inside and eat these?”

Sherlock stood for a moment in stunned silence, as if he couldn’t quite believe Marcus had really accepted his apology. Then, he smiled, shyly, his expression timid and surprised.

“I’ll not be doing anything like that again. I promise that. I will only ever break into your home if someone is in genuine physical danger. If there is a fire, for instance.”

Marcus laughed. “Alright, sure.”

 

They ate the cookies on the couch, as Tessa played in her little enclosure. Marcus couldn’t wait until she was old enough that she could walk around normally; he didn’t like locking his child up in a pen, as much as it was for her own protection than anything else. It just seemed weird.

“So,” he asked Sherlock, “are you autistic?”

Sherlock didn’t seem surprised by the question. “I’m certainly on the spectrum, yes. To what extent is relatively unclear, as my behaviour is also highly affected by my intelligence. It, along with aspects of the environment I was raised in, makes many of the tests somewhat redundant.”

Marcus nodded patiently. He had suspected it.

“I will try my hardest,” Sherlock murmured softly, “not to upset you.”

Marcus looked over to him. Sherlock met his eyes, and Marcus suddenly realised how close they were sitting. He also remembered how Sherlock had chosen not to touch him before, so he leaned forward, away from Sherlock and towards Tessa. He understood, now, that Sherlock could not be as spontaneous as Marcus wanted. He had different emotional boundaries, different levels of comfort.

“I’ll try my hardest too,” Marcus replied quietly, reaching towards Tessa and dangling a toy before her face.

He didn’t see, but Sherlock smiled at him, gratefully, adoringly.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Marcus was tired.

He’d been taking extra shifts at the daycare, working overtime, and he never seemed to get home early enough to make himself proper dinners; he was trying to keep Tessa happy and fed, but it was so goddamn hard to take care of himself at the same time. He hadn’t been to the gym in a whole week, and he had an alarmingly large pile of washing growing by his bedside. He was drinking too much, as well; nothing extreme, nothing that would qualify him as being an alcoholic, but enough that he would lose his figure if he kept it up. Falling off the wagon. Too stressed for his own good.

It was Thursday when he cracked.

Tessa just wouldn’t stop _crying._ He’d fed her, he’d changed her nappy, he’d done everything he could possibly do– she just _wouldn’t stop,_ and he couldn’t handle it any more. He ran out of the apartment, closed the door behind him, and fell against the wall. He slid down, knees against his chest, hands covering his face. He was so tired. So fucking tired. He could hear Tessa crying, even outside, and it was a sound that cut right to his heart, through his bones, into his chest. He felt so hopeless. So useless. He was so alone, raising this tiny little human being all by himself.

Marcus heard footsteps approaching. He wiped his eyes and looked up; to his immense relief, it was Sherlock approaching him, and not another of his neighbours.

“Hey,” he said, sniffing.

Sherlock sat beside him, and held out a bowl of baked pasta. Marcus sighed shakily, and took the bowl.

“Jesus, thank you,” he breathed.

Sherlock nodded, and held out a fork. “You’re obviously quite stressed. You ought to ensure you take proper care of yourself.”

“Yeah,” Marcus laughed darkly and took the lid off the pasta, stomach growling as he inhaled the smell of creamy cheese sauce, “easier said than done.”

He started eating, enthusiastically and hungrily. Sherlock crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap, and sat patiently as Marcus ate. That was one thing Marcus loved about Sherlock; he didn’t feel the need to talk all the time. He wasn’t careless with his words, and he knew the value of comfortable silence.

“It must be hard,” Sherlock said, eventually, “being a single father.”

Marcus, swallowed his mouthful of pasta, and sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah. It is. But her mom ain’t around, so it’s just me. And I love my baby girl, I do. It’s just…”

“…stressful.”

“In a word, yeah. It is _goddamn_ stressful raising a kid by yourself,” Marcus laughed at the hilarity of it all, at where he had found himself in life, “especially when you’ve gotta support yourself too, you know?”

Sherlock hummed in quiet agreement, and they lapsed into silence again.

“I do not have an aptitude for children, as you very astutely realised early into our friendship.” Sherlock said softly, “Likely, it has something to do with the way in which my father raised me. Or, rather, didn’t raise me.”

Marcus chuckled. “Yeah, most guys our age that I’ve met? We’ve all had shit dads. Guess it was a generational thing– but, I suppose the ability to be a drunken abusive asshole transcends bloodlines.”

“My father was never abusive towards me. Not in any directly physical way. He was just… distant. Neglectful, you might say; emotionally abusive.”

Marcus dryly raised an eyebrow at him. “No beatings, huh?”

“Not from him, no. I just had to cope with having no father at all.”

“I would’ve envied that, when I was younger. Sounds like you had it good.”

“One person’s plight is not necessarily worse than another’s,” Sherlock replied patiently, “keep in mind that I turned to drug use in lieu of familial support.”

“…Shit, man, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t worry about it,”

“No, Sherlock, you brought me dinner, and I’m being a dick to you-”

“Marcus.” Sherlock said sternly, looking over at him. “Relax. I came here to tell you something, so will you cease your babbling for a moment and let me speak?”

“…Yeah, yeah, sure. Of course, go right on ahead.” Marcus replied tiredly, feeling irritated with his own carelessness. Usually, he wouldn’t have been so hopeless and forgetful; he really needed some decent goddamn sleep.

Sherlock drew in a slow, deep, thoughtful breath. He looked into Marcus’ eyes for what felt like a very long time, and Marcus blinked, feeing slightly uncomfortable.

“As I said before, I am not very… ‘good’ with children. But I would like to help you, in any way that I can. I think your plight is very admirable.”

Marcus felt a spark of anger in his stomach. He looked away and chuckled humourlessly.

“I don’t need your pity,” he muttered.

“I admire you, I don’t pity you.” Sherlock’s voice was wry and amused, “I don’t generally try to befriend anybody unless they have my immense respect. Rest assured, your dignity is utterly intact.”

Marcus looked back at him, and saw that he was telling the truth. He smiled hesitantly, as did Sherlock.

“I also think you’re…” Sherlock cleared his throat, “…very handsome.”

Marcus blinked. He stared, and Sherlock looked timidly back. They sat in silence, looking at each other and waiting for something to happen or someone to say something, until a grin slowly bloomed on Marcus’ face, and Sherlock was beaming too.

“Really?”

“Well, I’d hardly have said it if I didn’t mean it, now would I?”

Marcus laughed. “I reckon you’re hot too.”

“I know. Why else would you have approached me in my apartment, under the guise of neighbourly friendship? No one approaches a neighbour without an ulterior motive.”

Marcus laughed again, louder. “Nothin’ much gets past you, does it?”

“No.” Sherlock replied lightly, humour making his eyes bright.

“You… wanna come inside? Think Tessa’s stopped crying.”

“I would like that,” Sherlock smiled, his voice quiet and his expression coy, “thank you, Marcus.”

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock’s apartment was full with all manner of objects, books, and _things._ Marcus found it comforting, rather than claustrophobic, as if the foreign clutter created some kind of a blanket from the outside world– and, of course, from the responsibility that weighed so heavily on Marcus and ruled his every waking moment.

With Sherlock, he could take what he wanted, all for himself.

He could kiss Sherlock, push him down into the sheets, and relish the feeling of their bodies pressed together; he could touch Sherlock how he wanted, and let Sherlock touch him, let himself arch and moan and gasp, allow himself to give in. No restraint. No fear.

He loved it when he could straddle Sherlock, and ride him. His hips swaying, his body slowly dancing, the burn and spark so hot inside him that it was almost unbearable. He loved the way Sherlock looked up at him, the need in his eyes, the irritation at being unable to take what he wanted. He would slide his hands up Sherlock’s arms, pull them above his head, and pin his wrists down against the mattress. Move until he was gasping and shaking, and Sherlock could do nothing but beg for it.

He knew that Sherlock could, quite easily, resist. He was a strong man, his muscular body a testament to the physical strength he possessed. But Sherlock went willingly, allowed Marcus this power, allowed him to feel in control.

And Marcus had never been so grateful.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Can I ask you something?”

“Oh, no. That sounds serious,” Marcus joked, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, “what is it?”

Sherlock looked over at him, his face more solemn than Marcus had expected.

“…For someone who just had the best orgasm of his life, you look way too unhappy.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow wryly. “I’d hardly call it the _best_ I’ve ever had, but yes, it was very good. I…” he paused hesitating, “I’d like to ask you about Tessa, Marcus. About who her mother is.”

Marcus’ smile faded, and he felt his mood dip. He had been wondering how long it’d take for Sherlock to ask; he supposed he’d deceived himself into thinking he’d never have to explain it. With a long sigh, he lay on his back, closed his eyes.

“You don’t have to answer,” Sherlock said softly, “don’t feel obligated to tell me. I just felt that, if it is a situation or memory that weighs heavily on you… that you should feel free to share that burden with me.”

Marcus opened his eyes again, gazed glumly ahead. “It ain’t a burden. It’s just not a good story.”

“As I said, do not feel obligated. You know I’d never force you to anything you didn’t want to do. And this is clearly a very personal matter that you-”

“It’s alright, just… give me a second.”

Sherlock fell silent, and Marcus had never been the recipient of such patience and respect before. He’d never known anyone this understanding, this kind. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“Her mom’s name was Officer Paula Reyes. I had an affair with her, when I was a Detective. She was caught stealing illegal firearms from police busts… she only realised she was pregnant when she was in prison. She didn’t want the baby, but she didn’t believe in abortion, so she… gave birth, and then wanted nothing to do with her child,” Marcus swallowed, surprised to feel that his throat was tight, that it was difficult to breathe. “…with Tessa. I’ll never forget… I’ll never forget her face. When she held her baby, and she looked so cold. So hateful. She handed Tessa to me, and she said… she said, ‘I never want to see this thing again’. She called our baby a ‘thing’, Sherlock. A fuckin’ _thing_ ,”

He sucked in a sharp breath, and felt Sherlock gently take his hand. He closed his eyes again, and tried to breathe properly.

“I quit my job. Changed careers. It was goddamn hard, to transition from bein’ a cop to changing diapers for living, but… I had to raise my kid. I refused to let her get lost in the system, or grow up in some abusive foster home.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he said, “You’re a good man.”

“It’s just common goddamn decency,” Marcus replied, his voice strained.

“Decency of that kind is less common than you may assume.”

Marcus thought back to that moment in the maternity ward, and thought of his own father. And he wondered about cruelty, and about love, and about a parent’s obligation to take care of their child.

“I’m just doin’ my best,” he said, because, really, that was the only thing he was sure of.

“Of course you are. And you’re excelling.”

“But I just… I keep on thinkin’… what if… she ends up like her mom, y’know? What if she…”

He’d never told anyone else. Never spoken the words aloud. Never let this fear, this terror, out into the world. He felt tears spring into his eyes, and he blinked them away.

“What if she hates the world? What if she hurts people, like her mom did? What if I’m not good enough, and she needs a mom in her life, and she becomes…”

Sherlock leaned over, and looked down at him.

“She won’t.”

“But,” Marcus began.

“She _won’t.”_ Sherlock promised him, “Not with you as her father.”

Marcus laughed helplessly, and heard his breath hitch. He realised he was crying, and tried to turn away; but Sherlock embraced him, holding him close, face pressed into his neck. Marcus clung to him, and he couldn’t control the sobs that started to shake him, but he felt... _safe_.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
